“Help!”

Easton is now pushing two (oh DEAR LORD how did this happen!) which means we’re in for a world of hurt. I can feel it coming the same way I wake up 15 minutes before my alarm goes off. He’s already started to declare his independence and test boundaries.

At this point independence looks like two things:

#1. REFUSING to let us feed him or help him eat in any way shape or form. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for self-sufficient meal times…BUT…this also means that he will flat-out refuse to feed himself ANY of his dinner, make 3 trips to time-out for throwing food on the floor and still insist on getting a treat. Haha, nice try kid, that’s not gonna fly. But don’t mind me while I savor this cookie in front of you while you yell and scream at me…you should have eaten your dinner. Deal with it.

#2. (and herein lies my story) “Helping” mommy and daddy. do. just. about. everything.

Please note, the use of “help” rather than help.

Most of the time it is cute and adorable how hard he tries to do grown-up mundane tasks….putting the milk back in the fridge, unloading the dishwasher, putting cups in the sink (aka thrown somewhere on the counter because he can’t see where the sink actually is). Other times it’s just awkward and a bit creepy…

“Easton, mommy needs to go potty”

“I help”

“No, no baby, I can do it, thank you so much though”

“I HELP!” (as he pushes his way into the bathroom and tries to flush the toilet mid-pee)

“Easton. Hold on. Agh, stop unrolling the toilet paper!”

“I HELPPPPPP!!!!”

“Okay, when I’m finished you can flush the *flush* nevermind, good job baby”

And then…then there are the absolutely glorious moments when his “helping” turns into downright hilarious, videos-I-can’t wait-to-show-your-highschool-girlfriend moments. Tell me you wouldn’t store a gem like this for future “go clean your room or I show her the video. Yes, that one. Go. Clean. Now.” bargaining power.

Here’s how this went down. Christian and I were folding laundry. Since any “help” here usually means scattering my nicely folded stacks of clothes, I delegate Easton’s duties to handing Christian and I the laundry out of the basket. Of course, with the attention span of a small woodland creature, this typically results in him picking out a piece of laundry and running around the house with it. Which is exactly what happened on this night.

Except rather than simply running around with it, he wanted to put it on. What was “it” you ask?

Christian’s underwear.

As soon as I saw him attempting to put them on, I was delighted…this is gonna be great. Mind you, my 6’6″ husband and my 1 1/2 year old have rather different clothing sizes. So it looks a little something like this:

undies1undies2

Now let’s talk about pride. Because, man, was this kid PROUD of himself wearing daddy’s undies! Not only was he running around cracking himself up, but he turned into his very own one-kid circus act, pausing every so often, throwing his arms in the air and yelling “TA-DA!!!”

undies2(1)

Ahhh, yes – videos like this make me feel as though my job as a mother is complete. Screw potty-training, ABC’s, and learning to share. I have a lifetime worth of embarrassment to teach him everything he’ll ever need to know in life.

undies1(1)

Aw crap, who am I kidding. He’s adorable, and any future highschool girlfriend will probably just swoon over this kind of shit. Maybe once he’s in college, I’ll unleash these…ehh…how about 30. 30 is a good age to bust out something this swoon-worthy. I wouldn’t want to turn him into a ladies man too early.

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